sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 225

I parked the ‘B in the expansive and empty red-brick portico and got out. Walked in through the giant wooden front doors that looked like they weighed a ton each but opened easily with just a tug, shutting themselves behind me with a gentle thunk. The smell inside the place was more of a scent—faint whiffs of cinnamon mixed with pine and roses. Orchestral music wafted softly throughout the foyer, itself a grand affair with vaulted ceilings and ornately carved Gothic woodwork and thick indigo-blue carpet. No one was manning the receptionist’s station, but a silver bell was resting on the front counter, so I gave it a ding, and that’s when I met Penny.

What a cute gal. Perky and petite, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose, she came through the back door of her office briskly, greeting me with a big Pepsodent-white smile and a girlish giggle attached to the end of every sentence she spoke. I told her my name and that I had an appointment at ten, and she started clicking away on her keyboard, scanning her monitor intently and repeating my name over and over until, ahhh, she found it. Told me I could have a seat in the lobby and she’d let Mr. Holtz know I’d arrived. Then she gave me another big smile and told me how glad she was that I was checking out the New Tomorrows Funeral Center to serve my after-death needs.

“Uhhh, sure, Penny. You bet. No problem.”

I walked into the lobby and sat down. Shook my head slowly. Was difficult to believe I was hanging out in a funeral parlor waiting to talk to someone about making my final arrangements, particularly since I’d been feeling pretty danged good lately. But just recently, it had become painfully clear to me I needed to get my funeral plans in place as soon as possible. Why? Because of Karl Schmidt, that’s why.

I met Karl at the frat house back when we were both sophomores at UND, and we hit it off right away. Ended up becoming suite-mates for both our junior and senior years. A tall, black-haired, brown-eyed, barrel-chested farm boy with a penchant for bibbed overalls, flannel shirts, and GMC pickups, Karl was smart as a whip and armed with a boisterous laugh and a razor-sharp sense of humor. We chummed around all the time and in the process got pretty close. Could talk to each other about anything. Anything. But after graduation he went his way, and I went mine. We soon drifted apart until, out of sheer luck, some thirty years later, his company transferred him to its new operation in sludgoville. We connected again, and it was like we’d never been away from each other. Picked up right where we’d left off and kept it going. I worried that would change once I moved across state to New Sludgoville back in ’21, but it hadn’t. We FaceTimed every now and then and were always texting birthday wishes or holiday greetings or how-ya-doin’ nudges to one another, and everything was hunky-dory. But then, early last Tuesday morning, I got a call from his wife, Kathleen.

As soon as she said my name, she started to cry. I asked her what was wrong, but wasn’t really sure I wanted to know. She haltingly told me she had some terrible news. Said that after dinner last night, Karl had told her he wasn’t feeling well. Just some indigestion, he thought. Took a couple-three Rolaids and said he was going to bed early. Gave her a kiss goodnight and walked into the bedroom while she stayed up to read, and when she finally went to bed around midnight, he was…he was…

I stopped her. Choked down the fat lump that had quickly risen in my throat and told her how sorry I was. How shocked I was. Shocked. Because I was. The guy had always seemed to be in great shape. I knew he still liked his brewskis, but only in moderation, and he’d never smoked anything beyond a Thanksgiving turkey or an Easter ham. He’d been an avid outdoorsman all his life, and as he got older, he’d taken up mountain biking and become kind of a health nut: well-versed in vitamins and minerals and carbohydrates and electrolytes and the importance of dietary fiber. Yup, I was shocked.

I told Kathleen that if there was anything I could do to help, just let me know, of course, and she began sobbing again. Said she was totally unprepared for this to have happened. That she and Karl had never made arrangements for this kind of thing. That they’d never even talked about making arrangements for this kind of thing. Told me her sister was flying in from Denver that afternoon to help her pick out a casket and a tombstone, then look for a gravesite. That they’d also have to figure out what to dress him in because he didn’t own a suit. That it was just all so overwhelming.

We talked a bit longer, and I told her I’d call back later to check in. Hung up the phone, then pursed my lips and furrowed my brow. As saddened as I was to hear the news of Karl’s death, Kathleen’s call had brutally reminded me I hadn’t made any formal arrangements for my passing either. It hit me that I didn’t want to leave that kind of mess for the boys to clean up, especially during a time when they might not be thinking clearly or making the best decisions, and I’d had a good idea for a long while of what I wanted to see happen when I finally dropped, but no one knew of any of those intentions. So I’d decided then and there to remedy that situation before it was too late.

Mr. Holtz strolled confidently into the lobby and greeted me as cheerfully as Penny had. Didn’t look at all like what I thought an undertaker would look like. Was trim and fit and younger than I’d expected, mid-thirties I’d’ve guessed. Was wearing casual business clothes: a sharp blue-and-white checked long-sleeved button-up with tan khakis and tassel loafers. Shook my hand and introduced himself as ‘Mr. Holtz’ before telling me to call him Howard. Ok, Howard. Led me down the breezeway into his office, a bright and airy space with plenty of framed diplomas and certificates and awards hanging on one wall and plenty of pics of an attractive young woman with two small children hanging on the other. Wife and kids, I silently supposed.

He sat down in an overstuffed burgundy leather chair behind a broad mahogany desk, and I sank into one of the two matching wing-backs parked in front of it. He grinned broadly and said he’d seen me arrive in the ‘B. Joked that he knew I had good taste because he owned one too—a ’65 Roadster. Primrose over black. We both chuckled at the coincidence and chatted a bit more about MGBs before moving on to the business of the day. Had a frank and concise conversation about my preferences for interment, and he clued me in on the process. Told me he’d be happy to take care of the funeral, but said that I’d need to connect with the graveyard people back in sludgoville to reserve a plot. Said that if I hadn’t already, I should also immediately appoint someone as power of attorney and make sure that person was provided a final instruction sheet specifying where the funeral and burial were to be held. Said that I’d need to specify other things too, things like bank account numbers and website and phone and computer passwords, and what I wanted to have happen with the disbursement or disposal of my personal property. Recommended spending a couple hundred bucks to consult with an estate attorney about all that. Then, after giving me a quick breakdown of what his part of the show would cost me, he told me he had one more thing I should consider. Said that a lot of people were writing their own obituaries these days to avoid someone else getting stuck with the job, so that was something I might think about doing, especially since I was a writer.

I gave a wry smirk at the thought. My Last Mile Marker. The end of the road.

After the meeting, as I was driving home in the ‘B, I felt relieved and at peace, like I’d just cleared a big pile of yuck off of my plate. Looked at myself in the rearview and smiled a satisfied smile. Noticed the clear blue sky above me and the late-summer sun warming my face, and suddenly was overcome by a profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the moment. Gratitude for the day. Gratitude for the life.

Thanks, Karl. Godspeed, my friend.